THE CHRISTMAS FOG.

i. A FEW DAYS BEFORE A Christmas I HAD NO REAL INTENTION ON EVEN ACKNOWLEDGING, I WAS ALERTED THAT RELATIVES WOULD BE SHOWING UP, AS IT SEEMS EVEN A MOTHER DEATH CAN NOT STOP THEM DOING THEIR WOP ACT FOR ANYONE HERE. I was told with a few days to make a Christmas on the fly, as didn’t even have tape and had to get a pork roast out of the freezer, though amazingly, though they hated Poultry every xmas my mom strived to make, now suddenly the Roman meal of pig for saturnalia and new years, which I hope I am free of them then, was somehow against whatever dietary laws they can come up with on the fly.

One reason I despise Hillary Clinton as I do, is that the husband proved to me he was a weakling and pussy as a brother also steeped in Romanism saw from the beginning, but alas his use of Ovid against the mouth breathing women and the miss Grundy’s, I thought, meant something, which is my own fault, as again with his ilk, nothing comes out of nothing. I see her as an awful nun , making a Roman addled schoolboy into little more than a Jewish husband who will never speak again. One reason I thought that I sized her so, like Peggy points of lights Noonan now admits , they were hated by the sanctimonious, ah Now you weep, as my namesake thanks to my mother would so say. Now with Bilbo I guess for all instants and purposes dead enough to not corrode and corrupt, a falling, fallen, angel in always I guess, as Somehow we are being given platitudes and homily from those pigs who were early on television making Monica jokes with glee and now, the face making monsignor queers of Cyclops and bloody sheets, have the never to lecture us through their grinning tiredness of evil. Too bad, I say, remember the bathwater, tap water, toasts you made against all Roman laws as yentas try to steal the papacy for the first time in a thousand years. And when nudes I had done in art school after hutting the local strippers at the Roman V to come in and pose as exemplars of femininity, ala Raphael, who also used the working girls of Rome as his model’s for various Minerva’s, when they started getting torn down in our perpetual Cupola vineyard, I have to ask the crime family scumbags, if they ever heard the line from Dante about how many bags of shit are at the island of Medusa…?

Too, one bigger reason I  hate her so is that recall when my father was still alive, I saw her, still in all her mousey haired, myopic, glory on some stupid show of a sort  I used sued to watch, I believe her getting the sensual distress of a lineman head named Gerroooge, that would later marinade in to any hag in a storm. So, don’t tell me you’re upset she’s not imperial persona you human lemon, as I recall when you made a point that no body was as tall as they’d have hoped.
I saw here early on, on I think it was David Brinkley after he had somehow eschewed the Kmart of networks, the Nation biscuit company, and the grave of General Sarnoff, to A Bigger Check, and a Ominous Sunday show if his on in shod days when not only was there no #metoo, but rape victims had to take dna tests just to prove Byzantine Bill was even on the same floor, so devoted were we woken to the king of the crime bill. But why I really hate her was that she made a point, this human bag of shit, this queen of weeds, and every other diminution I could pull out of Tacitus if I had the time, or inclination, was that she was a first person to make a point that of course Mariko Cuomo was somehow not the liberal champions  that her and dripping husband was. Still then in 1991, though he was busily making the rounds of Sons of Italians would actually be at, as was with Carter, but between ogling the underage Ginas there, and drinking Grappa as if he liked it,  and he living off of fried dough’s as he had at the carnival enabling his life was, somehow Mario Cuomo was not as staunch a liberal as this hag, and her cunt of a husband was. I am off that showboat, Bill, I cant stand to see you anymore, it is a sadness like catching Namath as a Ram,as I didn’t pretend that I was a cross between Niccolo Machiavelli and Dennis Mitchell now did I...? Only to have to make sure that Yes Dear were the last words parroted as a continual Rozzsssebudddd...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V1d4r9awjKE

Early on, my brother, saw less than hero Bill Clinton with the pussy qualities and he’s whose been able to quote Ovid, to this day chapter and verse, and knows it alllll,,,,was against those two pigs who were slithering towards power , tunneling forward like Milton Satan, or just the tape worms that they are. But early on, too, I felt a certain empathy for Brother Bill, and his open love of Roman farce, epic, strategy and epic, and too, for his obvious love of Roman dinning girls like Cattilus at the carnivals, surrounded as he was by Biddies, queers and sycophants of power.
But now, I am not so sure that my brother wasn’t right all along. He did, after all see through the long winded address that Billie the kid--notice woman’s spelling, gals,  a feature of Roman farce that I’m sure bought and paid for hoodlums like CBS monsignors aren’t allowed anymore, like asking a bad golfer, does your WIFE play golf too…? All which now may be  just another lebso joke, as once again, the Romans and their genetic love of truth means the barbarism will be making another pyre for what pages are left over again, I hated Hillary since  then though, as did my suspicious Mom. We saw her coven at some Tim Russeret, and he’d pay as must they all for having not greased the skids for that hag enough, asked her why she was against Mario Cuomo, as she once was, along with aids victims. Well, he, she announced somewhere, to my distaste,  on a football Sunday in which I was just waiting to see the suddenly restored Cowboys ala 1990 or so, like Sauce was, that Mario, damningly, had said he rather see a society, mid- Regin,  that was far too much to bear for our mousey berthas to be fair, decency and the qualities  of mercy, again a line from Ariosto, were so much of her husbands cum on white shoulders, and meant nothing to the Satanist- Goldwater delegate she has always been, as in fer a penny. I held that against her now, all these years and hope her husband got her good,  as always felt there was a real cruelty at work here, that he did make sure to humiliate the old bag as much as anything, and rooted him on, Ah, but now, like all circus, we have stayed too long, and need some pace from these clowns, a sad roman minute of devotion to lost nobility and grass and crows, already shown on page there of Ovid’s January in the book, that again, showing his sharpens, my brother thought that bloated imperial John Clinton would die to avoid.



So, now, the great Borgia marriage is surrounded by immigrates who recall them at the temples that Torquemada tossed their salads at, as again, like Jews finding italy as a less theocratic land despite who holds the banners, , there is always a pretence and a fear, like with Yenta Bloomberg, the hard sell is just again hiding the fact that another bloated Bugsy is eventually going to step in Gucci shoes he’d naught. Bill is surrounded by enemies, again, and now the prospect of having been emasculated into Lady Bird is nothing compared to a hack, capped tooth , nothing, who should he be embalmed into standard barer, the ghosts of long dead Jesuits from bulldog land will see that as a most awful, reversal of fortunas.

ii. The only decorations Ive put up for this watering to have been unnoted Christmas was a poster I  did of a Black haired Cammilla as a Jovial Angela, complete with helmet, Minerva shield and of course the body of a penthouse pet, which was done and accepted by a site where the lesbians who have accepted my work have had a adverse reaction to being shunned and demeaned again as of all people, lesbians seem to be out to get the auspicious of a Jewish cartoon piggish bag of tripe, who like Jimmie Kimmel, they once were unnerved by and made sickened by, not that long ago.
And too, I have a small plastic Christmas lighted ornament, an angel with spinning roses, like an image one would see in Dante’s Empyrean. And that was it, as was asked by a onrushing returnee if we were ousting up a tree, causing me to wince, and my brother to almost yell out, heard on the phone from here at the angel lit darkness, your mother is dead, bitch, give some fucking respect in this fucking toilet of a nation.

My father, and the Jesuits, trained my brother even better than I, as I am never schooled by how low they can go, as he often is. The lesbian girls with which I deal, are suddenly not so keen on their queen as she going to Howard Stern was a previous aged fault, it appears, and recalls in them just how full of shit this whole things was, which to be fair, a gal talks to me that I did see coming when spoke of how Monsignor creepy Boys room enthusiast Steve Colbert had at the beginning of this needless morass, did when him not making faces and smirking at Bill as  he said Monica aloud, thinking he was somehow now freed of the debt of making jokes about the great queen, no wait, Prince, who can tell in Tacitus, mistress, well whatever, he thought himself quite the king of things, as snow dissolves into the warm waters of not being liked, at which he was used to.





But then, my brother asked me not to glower or be of bad cheer...he said Life goes on, and though this wouldn’t be a Saturnalia as it had been, it wouldn’t be dry toast either. He went to the state store and bought a case of Coors for me, the only beer I can drink in Irons city land that doesn’t remind me of swill, and piss, and bought a bottle of Jack Daniels, florid with apple as it was the old mans drink, a mans drink , as is aid , before we all became insurance salesmen. As I  remember when football players sued to sell things men liked, like Bourbon and woman. and even panty hose had a sexual aspect, a who likes short shorts aspect that hags of empire like Miss Grundy Warren will actually rail against, thinking somehow for the first time since the Romans that the spoils go to the vanquished, which they never ever do. A few days before Christmas, my brother gave me a gift certificate that he had won somehere at some gala he was at, and told me to buy a classic book or comic books, a gift from him to me, to not not mark this Roman day, that like Bloomberg and his blue streak of apologies and resentments and reconsiderations, there is nothing any Semite has ever said or believed in, ever that cant be fandangled and reamed to include what the people believe in, from Saturnalia to Lady Luck, should the aliases suspicious purists of arabesque find that the plebes looked down on so hardily are , with Mars and swords in hand, see what I did there, will take the decent house n****grs among  us and make sure that net flicks doesn’t honor its contacts.

As 175 MILLION BALLOONS IS QUITE THE LAY OUT FOR YET ANOTHER MAFIA MOVIE, STARRING THE QUEERS, MOLED SON, WHO DIDN’T SEEMINGLY HAVE ENOUGH RESPECT FOR POP AS AN ITALIAN AS HE WOULD HAVE TO HIM AS A QUEER, ESPECIALLY WITH WOMEN ABOUT TO FALL OUT OF CLOSEST,  AND TELL US ONCE AGAIN ante Trump AS JUST ANOTHER CICERO’s PLAY TO MAKE SURE NO ONE RECALLED OR NOTED THAT THE GREAT Jewish WOP SENATOR WAS WILLING TO TAKE MONEY FROM SULLA, THE FIRST DESTROYER OF A VAUNTED AND LOST AND ALWAYS CAPABLE OF BEING LOST , REPUBLIC.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HV8OCOaxq0Y

And Christmas , of all times, seemed a bad moment to bring that fool back,--Scorsese, or Cicero, for that matter, -- especially what with his having been stained with old Jews tossed at him, with numbers tattooed on their childish  for arms, as again German engineering is nothing, at least to me, as compared to Roman, as Poland is not filled with Pantheons that let the sun in at the right times s much as they are dotted with crematoriums and rail roads,  that the newly manned cbs Jewish rats hope early can be brought back to the earth, least it queer the latest deal withy always make with their latest blonds.

That amount of scratch could have made not another mid century ode to the Jersey swamps of Lufthansa’s case we have never Technicolor and blood squib bed enough,  quite the Juvenal, could have been made. As while Tina herself is white knuckling it in her dreary suburban ride, selling again Insurance, as again I feel like I’m in an all state commercial.
That amazing amount of money, to make again a Mafia Movie seemed untenable and I hope he was Italianate enough to steal a third, like something out of the Satyricon uncle Bill has left, like the Roman festivals just come,  unfinished. Of course,  Ovid’s heart was broken, as he was taken out of the great emerald city, yes Rome was called that one in one of these, as all things Roman weren’t so hated until it seems Jews and in laws,  needed a minstrel show forty years back,  and then dared to pretend that the in laws they sold themselves to needed someone to laugh at , who , of course, wasn’t they.
I again wrote a paper that got its share of admiration from the brethren, as just like the apaches who have sent me another dream catcher my brother says to place on the wall next to a Mom’s picture, as the italics are nothing if not approximating and appropriating, and then of course, the spics will tale us how we must watch their pigheaded up accoutrements, and as I said to some cunt who dared shoveled her shit at me, about cultural appropriation, Butch, there hasn’t been a senate this bought and plaid for in two thousand years, ...you’re  welcome mutherfucker.
My paper about THE DIGEST OF ROMAN LAW WAS VERY MUCH ALLUDED BY the boys of the society of Jesus, as they liked me more than the dykes, negroes with scholarships, and hillbillies and lace curtain bumbling pill heads of that time, whose try again to take over et Urbis Et Orbis, and trade to both snatch and of course, stubble and break Augustus’  golden orb. They, like the apaches did, liked my Romanisa, liked the fact that Apaches wore the same feathers as did Roman centurions wither the softener poverty law pontiffs like it or not, --they never heard of Jeddah--as they just love people in rags as I was alerted early on. But I didn’t listen to anyone, as my pop told the well wishing Rabbi, and the brothers liked that I saw a connection between the first true constitution , sorry Paracles, like Jews they ahve to give a lot of givens, and the shows loved as a boy, like Paladin and Gun smoke. They liked that, a lot.

And, all I know is that Martin Scorsese has seemingly made more movies about the Irish, than he did about his allegedly beloved Romans. And The Irishman departed into a consent Christmas drizzle lack of notice, as did too, commercials starring house wop Devito, whose been doing a take on a wop from the barrios of the shire now for longer than any STEPPEN should have to ho dee golden do. Seeing in his hit and miss delivered The Wall Street Hournal, that Peggy Noonan is telling everyone that the Clinton are dispraised by those who now with their evil eyed infama, as Ma would call it, have the audacity to pretend they didn’t make Monica jokes, making Colbert now find new drinking partners for his styrophome toasts, he said to me, How the Fuck do you figure these things out, from so far away from their Marble halls. He also laughs that Pillozzi is eating her plate of crow, as no one in the senate wants a prolonged , silly, unneeded , Jewish rite, and hardly Roman, of a cutting off of Trumps feet, look it up, initialed Goddesses. As see, coined again, proving I am right about all but girls, and who is...?, there are a teamsters union of men in purples sashes, who have to sue January to do a Full Santorum, you know the dumb wops allowed to be called shit run off by a bargain basement  a faggot creep activist, who is always there , like Scorsese to make sure the in-laws know everything they thought of you was right all along. The Capote factor.



iii. So then, in what was becoming one long dreary , dizzily, snow less Christmas, the package came . A copy of Ovid’s Roman Festivals, I think on the eve of Saturn’s holiday no lamb of God could do battle, as  Chrissy as a mad man at the Christmas sales had not given over well  as to be fair to the Romans did didn’t when people were just looking to have a fucking holiday without this self important creep who stole copiously from Zoroaster and Roman congressional records.
The book had come. And, its title would be in ;Latin, Festi, not English, although to be fair, the English queens of literature are actually starting to give the Romans their due, and heavens to Betsy, actually give the books the titles that Roman and italic geniuses gave them, the days of Cattiline’s conspiracy long been done, securely at the National review. Here was the book, though the Brother  was disappointed I had not bought a hoity-todier copy and not  sued the whole certificate, and instead got a cheap Penguins copy as I had, and it was without the Gustavo Dore drawings that some spics and Spanish have utilized to be able to have careers amid the white woman who only know Dore , if at all having seen the pages of gray and silver brilliance as they go up in flames , showing again, in Germania, even the progressives aren’t that different from their circus hating, corn flakes eating, studdbubba grandparents, as I had been warned. I rather liked it as a cheap version, as used some of the rest for flair pens, which was find with him, and too, as a gift for him from me, got a family sized, Tide detergent Box of juju beads, a favorite of his, and small packets of peanuts. He was not pleased that I’d do that, but he does like, as do we all here, like eating enthused the gummy things all day, and it was a size I couldn’t forgo, as its the same way that Ellen and Colbert buy their decency.
And flipping through the Roman Calander, I see this book isn’t edited by people who seem suspicious of all Italian geniuses and Roman works of days, as again they have to admit about Ovid lately, he has become big since Bill Clinton mediated he was a favored, while Johnny Carson’s ghost show that a calculating ninny of a family once said, in ‘92, as Bill said he liked things like Roman epic and farce and classics and drama, Johnny recounted that this patrician bitch, born with a silver spade in his mouth, the line changed for being said by Ma Richards, shoeing some men don’t lose 12 straight elections by accident, and the feeble Liberals have always been doormats, as like the Colbert’s who wont get anywhere near the golden door, they are glad to be here, as they are glad to be anywhere, until like Tommy Smothers, they are told black rock is not amused.

The old coot, M, hated Opera, of course, and liked horse shoes and Hee haw, to WHICH the comically perplexed sophisticate Johnny made a face that got a laugh about the beginnings of our sliding down Virgil’s cyan road. And, I saw the story, I think, recounted in the Roman lists of festivals  that told me why Bill Clinton should have never come this far, or done half his shit. It seems in Augustan Rome, from where Ovid had been exiled, showing Augustus I guess had Ennius Roman meter meaning he didn’t just Kill the great poet as he had so many, that it is known that Augustus , wafting a restoration as pigs like him wlasy do woken they become, when they think they can no longer be arrested, like in Chappaqua, that eh didn’t like the old forms of religion, which a Germanic doctorate explained weren’t so much a roman acceptance of the old elusions as much as some hidden satirists that had once covered the earth in whole. So, Augustus went to go after that most Roman of goddesses, Jews and fascists nad Germans don’t like Minerva, I know, and he actually smashed a Roman temple to Vesta thinking he would recapped walls with Mars. Ah but she was loved, something I have warned the Jews, like Audrey,  and the priests now trying to remove her name from Transvestism, and arcade it with mistrusts of alphabet soups, that Vesta is no Jew Boy willing to be so whipped by the seated Governor.




When the made man named Maccius ,I think, the owner of the tracts of land called Carerra, in Italay, where that Auguries where plaiting the usual church of the penitents,  the perfects and the peculiar, Puritans ism, and that Vesta had been shattered to the ground, he walked in to the Praetorium. I am sure Bill Clinton would know, without any such appointments made by the  vestals he had standing around, as did Bill, as men had knives...and women dunt...? Any how, as reading this introduction not as anti Roman as many of these things are, calling Ovid no less a heroic figure as he juxtaposed the Jupiter of Palatine with the Jove who raped Silva and Daphne and et al, Macias hearing of the Great Clerk’s distress at Vesta of all things, he had his meeting with the tentative god, and explained the Vesta of that temple, as solemn enough Roman temples be smashed by barbarians and house niggers bombing Libya, that the model for Vesta here was not his wife, but his most beloved mistress, and that gallows have to be paid for by someone, don’t they...? In days Augustus anchored that his Midas like touch would turn Rome from brick to marble, but like Ovid, whose present came hours before Christmas , like he, and maybe someone else who keeps the Festi scared, liked Rome better when it was full of bricks and brunettes...

Christmas came, and I was heart sick to see I was surrounding by people , all Clintonish, who didn’t much care, and kept doing their shtick. A fat bloated relative wont give in on such things as blaring a television, and makes sure , like the fatso she always was, far from the eaters on command of theater, that will tell the most vulgar filthy stories while one is eating Christmas dinner, as of course, she makes a point she must watch the Flintstones, as if , as with her ilk, Hillary they think live will forever, it will always be 1975, when by then, even I a moppy haired boy, knew that those days were already irrevocably gone. I bought Ovid as will read it through as a rite of sorts while watch whatever trials are on television, in which only Bill Clinton could be the witness that makes  it all make sense, ah but he says already, like the captain of the anybody but Clinton brigade and hsoue n***gers with Martial wings too, they will not fulfill a subpoena, literally under the imperial hammer, much like they didn’t when now lionized CBS Seal teams members were left to die, as an Augustus never much could do.

iv. There was a real gloom over the city, maybe the whole region, over the media antics and I took out the garbage just to get some cold wind hitting me. It was a fog now, everywhere, and the nearby old leaden Xmas decorations on streetlights shone like starry starry nights did in Van Gogh’s tweezed and brilliant mind. I have gone on too long, and missed much, but, as a gift, my brother calls from Big Lots on the eve of the day of the resurrection, called that as Jew baby missed nothing once filed as a 501 C3, apostolic sun. As even reactionary, to sue a Mad Magazine- ism, Cicero, though quoted and loved by stone faced pols that my kinder and sweeter Mother despised, when literally hags from Cicero Ill., did not, did say somewhere that all religion came from a Neanderthal adoration of the sun. With Augustus’s comparing himself to Turnus, that did not go over well, but gave the old coot a lovely eulogy as I’m sure Clinton has written for any occasion, or need for a finally gotten dinner.
He had bought a cheap old DVD player from Payroll , asks me if I want to go pick it up. Sure I say and get dressed quickly and were out in the cold night, a small strip of red sky at dusk as the weakening , but soon to be predominate Roman Sun, as the persistent, daily fog of now, makes the lights of old time, Menchen hated yelow porches,  shimmer as the Romans would ahve wanted as a simple indo-European hidden lost religiosity, since someone at Rachel’s now ignored page made a point that I’d use that word, we can never know what the slur is after all, as I found out this year even mentioning Ariosto is a crime amid the family who wishes to have genetic powre, as poppy didn’t pretend he loved horse shows and Hee Haw, but eschew La Traviata, at least in public,  for nothing.

The fog was as thick, and constant, as it had seemed since I was a boy. And At Dusk, the lights all came on, and there were small wet shined bulbs of color, reclamation of a spring that the Etruscans called Prima-verdis, to the point they didn’t even want to name the wintertime, as Ovid here explains in a forwards that isn’t as defaming or detesting as many of these always were. The fog is prefect, as my mother had the Roman sun and clear skies to journey to the dark sides of Tennessee’s brother moon, and so now,I didn’t much care if it rained till new years. Look, I said to my brother as rode through sparkling bits of colored lights, there’s a church, lets go in and light something for Ma, for the season. He was dumbfounded. Are you kidding, he said, What are you talking about, what country do you think you’re in...? He called my bluff and we got out of the car and went to the large oaken doors. Ahah...he said as I saw, not in the clothes I should  have been, just a windbreaker on, the doors to heaven and hell were adjacent maybe, but also padlocked with a chain worthy of a Horatio Horn blower galleon and a lock as big as my hand. Goodwill towards all, he said with a sharpies smile, But lock the doors, father Mcgee.


The rest of Christmas week, I ignored any news crap, again place Ovid line about elitism and their ends here, there is a reason he is important to us Romans schoolboys in various forms of distention, and watched with the remnants of this family, who were never willing to stalk Praetoriums, as have the honor of a generals name as my pop told ne to inculcate me against the pan-genetics of SCORSESE, ALL THAT WHILE AGO, the old DVD I connected. As Star wars and Belli-cheat showed the third act is always the hard one, we sat here and watched Eastwood, the last LOTR’s which ma wasn’t here to note what had been stolen from Rosalinda and Italo’s folktales, but my brother left when the elves, as he said, tossed the ring into Etna, and he forwent the ten false endings. We watched the Departed, though he wanted no part of that, as Infernal affairs is better, I recall, and a shit load of South parks, as he bought every disk there he had found. Like Jon Stewart in the Obomination the guys at South park also befriend me in 2011 or so, showing again, like Bill Clinton, I am immune to the dis-natures of German nuns, bitches.

The best parts of this dreary Christmas was either the fact that Virgil’s atlas did come up out of the sea and slash STAR WARS on a Roman anvil, as it has been depressing me since I was ten. Some Empire struck back, kids. Or better the fact that Andrei poo , the new Gay Lombardo with boys from the bus qualities, had to admit that something called Black Palestinians, no wait, that lilly is gilded, no wait Israelis, in fer a penny…anyhow, Black Israelis are cutting the throat’s of Jews just trying to have the holidays even Jew baby Son O god Jesu seemed to be begrudge for them as people were starving in Bactria, although never motioned ten year old girls raped at the Villanovis when he said render unto Uncle Shylock, or whatever Tyberius was at the time. I made a Christmas wish , issuing my mothers remnants of Neapolitan magic that that hag Hillary “ Poker FACE’ GET WHAT SHE DESERVES , keep Virgil sacred hunny, don’t make the mistake your misbegotten hubby did, don’t bring up Ovid if you thought the end of time was ever going to be Mayan, hag.

My brother called as we went through the Warner Bro. collection, as was not a fan of either Casablanca or GWTW, before Negros were told to avoid it. I am filled with anger at myself for jiving, not kept impressing Jesuits and letting title niner fat, sloppy white, pig, broods think they owned the world, escaped on this occasions when still living , campaigning dead trash were told to let Iran amuck quietly go under the bridge, like when they find out Bellicheart is in fact, still being a naughty boy and now, as I thought, hooey so without compunction, or even Gilberto like prospective has to cheat against the Bangles, which can only mean he’s becoming more dangerous with each passing day, but what does Roman Anthony ever know…? On the phone, I had told him to put Superman 2 back, as wanted to get the first one first and maybe even the whole serial too before that and the rest of the Reeves collection, but soon regretted that. As the fog descended on the already dark, or black days, as Brokenhearted Ovid called them, the only festive lights in the room came from the small electric angelica I had plugged in as an only accompaniment of the holiday this awful year, and the older television, and moving colorful construction paper motions of foul mouthed little boys and a chubby funk or at night, a girl in rabbit years, showing me I wasn’t the out of place other that queens in Ovo, as I wonder if dear Brother Scorsese was actually shook when he , a supposed genius, was told he had to go headmaster Iger’s office for daring said something about their Virgil, pajama gamers Stan, and wonder if they’ll make him walk the streets in golden chains, or a little girl dressed as Minerva, because as its always been, triumph, even my getting a page here and there, and a well wished word of condoles at Saturnalia, is beyond his love of darkness and money. I was better off knowing who I was, and really not caring whatever was said by queers now pretending they are always victims, or future tom boys, or bathroom fags, or their later bearded girlfriends would have retried to convince me.

_

SATURNALIA DIARY V.

 

PART THREE.

PRETTY EYES, PIRATE SMILE...

10. Even my agronomists eyed brother who despises these CBS laugh track shows saw me watching it and snickering and sat and watched it and actual let me watch another with him as usually he isn't big on laugh track shit and watched a and e and H as bullshit ancient alien astronauts conjecture is the closest thing to classics that the Ovid reciting man can find. As Max though be smitten me was the sort drug loving tough chick curvy gummadi he grew up with, CURVY, LIFE AFFIRMING, LIKE HOW THE FAGS WHO ADMIRED HIM EVEN MORE THAN I, Making him read Metamorphoses in the original as a boy, but then no one cares about our abuse at the hands of priests as it wasn't vulgar enough to give the Anderson Cooper the woody he is staying classy is always on the outlook for lest he have no feeling of Charity at all in his eating and spewing life. Faith Hope and Charity are these three graces that GE will pay the anarchists not to have as they push the product.

Sat there with him as we watched this show, as again our Aquinian blood approved at Max though he did lower the remote when the blond was shrieking about something. There was a cute line where lip glossed vamony Max dressed perfectly as the bean pole was blathering about something, and she said, that she was hording a half a vidacin for new years. Well we have both been there as this made my brother laugh, as somehow truth even romance comedy truth got into a sanitized and horrid and venial, better word than vulgar, television in which horrid woman tell us how nobel they are, in ways they once could only do with the assorted help.

Im not your mammy or aunt Jemeima Tina, so, there hun, these two girls seemed to make racial, height, sex and drugs jokes willingly and eagerly and the peanut gallery even the ossified one at CBS, once like the Cowboys and America shining bright, laughs as did me, never even considering this show before saw the blond on some show and saw in a clip the kind of girl I literally dream about, but alas this time can take the blond as she is self deprecating in ways fat news chicks are not, and is despised by the giant Polish woman, which proves again, someone in this set had nuns, who I recall detested the Beths too, ...they are so Beth.

I came to dread Christmas the last few years as cannot stand the influx of relates and a full house, though the days I recall of my mother making patters of a kind of canoli you out there have never had those are long gone, disappeared when I BECAME ILL, and women she had known for decades refused to come to my house, fearing as a blond girl did when I was in school, that somehow these wops on strings would catch some sort of epileptic germ form me, and I am not kidding as the Italians are amiss since giving the vocabulary to almost everything, still many,especially Sicilians are amazingly... my what is the word...?Yes, Superstitious, which again is a given Roman word which only means religion, the religion of our fathers, when held on too after Constantine and his Jewish girlfriend, there is always a Jewish girlfriend, some Max in the past highfalutin it for a neronian creep. I see they made the laws of their fathers and the bacchanalian illegal unless it was the mass, eventually made illegal by a Luther who had become more lawyer sly than a fat white man should be. Look it up. Beard and wine, and the transubstantiation, oh it was pagan alright, but ti was thousandth years old and a rite done by priests of mars when Romulous was a boy and thus 824 years now they say before Junior showed up. Its stuff like that that despite my occasional sneers at Jews or even making all my Christ guild like super villains Jews, eventually Jews like me, for my pubertal anti Jesus and more anti Luther stands. I only liked Luther when he was played by Hackman. Heh. 

 

11. I found myself finding which stations played 2 broke girls and when and juggled my life accordingly. When my sister came home and thought shed watch this dreck, no in fact, the woman I saw watching Gilligans island like eight weeks ago on a Marython, doesn't like it, and doesn't watch it, ouhhhhc, as it isn't Max who as a fat girl she likes seeing shown on TV...what...?, but it is the blond she despises, and that 500 thousand watt smile, as she told me she would like to kick that bitch in the teeth, and even Max cant save her, though she liked the big blond who was she told me, the masseur who hated George in her household grail Seinfeld which by now, I have taken the pledge to never catch again, like Gilligan's island.

This is telling too me, as it is something that our GumbaJews in power, it Constantine or HBO shrimp eaters, there are woman out there like my sister who will forgo a show because of some blond as it fulcrum, and I dint think even Beth was that egregious as have seen worse blond inflected upon us from Television city and the shroud of Burbank the magical remnant in which Sherwood Shwatrz was braised in. May the Shawnz be with you. I went upstairs an asked my brother, already hiding and hibernation from this, if I could catch 2 broke girls with him and he succumbed, again the magic of Jewey Max to enjoy it as we Roman always have. I liked how it is return to television for that vast wasteland was identified by Tina and her sisters the dog, as again there were jokes here as Plautus meant them to be, about short people, drugs, women, poles, immigrants Iranians, Asians, blonds, chubby brunettes, it was indebted, whether Whitney knows it or not , indebted to the Roman farce as it was meant as say Trump is, as I am as Bill Clinton is, a lovely respite from Thirty Rocks which fall on us, another Roman line placed in the mouth of a red headed messiah naivety wants to make black, despite the whole children of Ham thang. Aint Nuttin but a T thang, bitches. There is the promethium arch in the parade again I cant even begin to know who to ask the question of the Delphic Google, but an aside that a pretty woman especially of an each other veracity like Kat Dannings, and even the bleach bimbo mamma played as the blond here, though I did see them true to somehow make street wise and bitchy brunette Max into the dumb one, the lief work of Maureen Dowd, and still it wanst as awful as most television be. Here is something about the healing qualities of a certain ethic groups hunnies, a Beatrice quality, that even Alan didn't understand when I drew a named penthouse pet Dominique and maned her Beatrice in a packed I stupidly sent to various companies and showed both Zoetrope and Fixar, as fucking if they could handle that, and I feel a real serenity just watching this lovely woman, as in fact there is no describable plot, not do I care I merely watch hear and the blond one Lucy and Viv there way through the revetments of Allen's alley, and I find it enjoyable and humane.

Again I am Cornelius at the shows, and just to be a bitch watch some bowls and football, ah the Roman remnant that even the Tinas and the white woman cant totally Constantine us out of, as again, the ladies who lunch at the vomiteraoerim allays feel strange compassion for the winos at the fields, which they don't feel for the slaves who make there ipods whether from the Apennines or china. The more things change. So I watch the show insistently as if each gaze upon CBS television city Laura is a warming of the blood, something done by Romans and done by china-men too, except in the Roman variation, men would lucratively put there hands in fire pits too show ther devotion and touch then bad hand, yikes, as I say again, kids, don't listen to the woman who will destroy you as Juvenal said, they are owned lock stock and barrel by your enemies, and thus, don't listen to the ugly hags and old biddies, as they will detract you, and don't turn away from your martial creeds, and don't make the same mistake the Italians made. I wonder how this show got on the CBS air, and how Steven Colbert stays, as in fact, if an old bag like schoolmarm Hillary and her little house on the Umbrian planes imperial fish wives ever find out someone is carcjing jokes about drugs and sex, after jacking off jokes from thigh showing to Max like a nun, Im sure she could really get her sewing circle if not her lesbian manias to be against it.

 

12. A few days before Christmas, maybe Actual Saturnalia itself, 13 Dec., I received a large envelope from Tuner Watson Inc., and the cartoon network which our slack jawed yokel with Disney dreams owns. I was alerted by legal that Tuner Watson inc and its myriad o' subsidiaries doenst take over the Transom work, and thus am fir-with warned and scolded that should Tuner Watson inc by itself and independence of my query come up with ideas and or concepts like those in this packet I have no redress of greivence, you see, and blah blah blah,... listen honey, I as Jesuit pre law I know all your bullshit nonsense Success like words of law, and thus it was my own fault for ever believing anything I saw on Reddit, where in fact the post I saw and clicked on said that cartoon Network when don't making vaudeville out of the teen titans I adored as a kid, maybe that should say something right there, was looking for new projects and thus printed out the submission agreement, which covered most of this missive and proclamation sent to me right here.

So, again taught by Jesuits dear, you wouldn't want to see me in court and went to comics and cartoons after being trained in the black arts of the Franciscans which the joke goes in Italy even you Jews must say with a disconnected admiration that the Jesuits play a game with which even semites are unfamiliar. So I place this here if anyone out there sees Tuner Watson inc and Adult swim, adult in the most elastic sense of the word, as if Id work for them, as I have a strange upsetedness in the poverta, when they put on a show in which a satire version of Captain Marvel, I mean more so, meets up with Gore Vidal as a Tarzan loving comic book impresario and a bountiful cute brunette from Dogpatch is made into a new less butchery, butch, wonder woman, and Stan less empire at Anvil comics is played on its head and etc etc, you ll know it came from the mind of Tony. Im kidding, you'll never see that on comedy central or cartoons channels, or anything owned by the slack jawed hick with day issues and how smart-ass Letterman and became a avowed liberal when others would go to jail. No, there are far too many dick jokes and vomit jokes to do in the great circus, the vaster wasteland, which ah combo so virulent and thus beloved by critics who think themselves quite the bad-ass, that we look back at the Newt Minnow days with charm of Archie and hawk eye and Mary and Carol , so again, my dick jokes, like Bill Clinton's are of a more Plautus nature, and thus not easily gotten without explanation too much to a channel that I read once passed on Archer, just to show with whom we are dealing. 

 

But now as we barrel toward new years, I have to say, I watch Kat Dannings and even Beth, yeccch, each time I see them available, as they bewilder me with a mixture of sexuality, baseness, Plautus and Roman farce that good Jews and Jersey wops who have made it to the can o pees and to Lake Tahoe and always in levitown no matter yet what the has they wears says, as they calm me in ways even my brother notices. The busty one is as her ilk has been since Dante is s symbol of life, vitality joy, as the trash and the garbage collects readying for another election year of Columbus days, proving their worth by making the antisocial black lives matters bullshit uprisings look less like planet of the apes and more like a stare of a Barney Miller lineup, you know now that Soursos is mental, a sign I see more and more here and there, is all wrapped up in the plutocracy.

Things are not going well for the candidates hand picked by our Jewish college of cardinals, I mean, now that the one once owned by the Borgias were scattered, and guess what religion they were when they had to escape Torquemada like Spanish devils for the never so uptight parts of Italay. And in fact it was there Jewishness, sorry but true, which Machiavelli said caused them to be much more acceptable than the born again Lorenzo left to die on a bed of white sweat as Savonarola, Italian Luther, convinced the mud nickler that the angels of the lord had come to say he could be saved, or was it invents, by signing his power of attorney over to him. Ah but Savonarola, outside of the admiration of a few radio head Jesus freaks, never made it in Italy, as Christ knows if you can make it there...you see , warning to ISIS, he trod first to get rid of Christmastime, did Savonarola, as pope Pius the third did, ouch, and Medved can call it pagan all his little jewey heart wants, it has been since Sallust, and sued in my play Saturnalia, a perfect mercantile holiday and I believe like so many who took it religious mother Italay, in her pixies and goddesses as seen by me in pudgy and glorious and pouty and string Max, the anted up in Max, end up having their heads , if not feet,hung up on a marble walls, where we get the word of impeachment still.

So I not so upset but disappointment as again saw this posted at the place where the ads are collected for wannabe comic artists. So we went to the drug store as didn't want to be out that much today as felt a bit queezey and it was as causally as the interregnum of Barry ends up in the rains he brought with overcast-ed him. Once oustde, My brother asked if the Popsicles or something cold was bought, which I forgot. He grumbling got out of the car and walked towards the band aid central. Stay here, he said, Ill be right back. At the door was a handsome behemoth of a bald black man at the red kettles of the charity at the doorways. I saw him and nodded and he said hello. I took out a dollar and tossed it into the bucket, Thank you, My brother, he said, As its been slow this year. Its a slow time, I said. I stood in the drizzle to cold down from a zap of energy which went through me today. Then as I stood there at the car, an effeminate, or at last a kind of nigger one sees not in the bunkhouses of Crikey Nicky Sabine but instead male versions of Angela Davis used as human shields lest anyone ask why the men here aren't paid in the slave labor of the blood sport came up to me. I didn't know what this ninny wanted, and the large black man sat at the stoop manning the pot of dimes at a neon pestle that shines in the drug store window and was collections dime and pennies for the poor, menacing now in Obama nation most of us all. 

 

The creepy negro wore glasses one would see on a Petaphile in Kojack, and was emaciated and wore an out of placed gray ski jacket and baggy pants though not the sort that decrying by Bill Cosby would see his life as two bit hacks nigger comics and maybe the guy who runs fubu were behind detaining. As with Joe Patreno, no matter what you have done before, the sanctimony and the scantiness of white tornado butter matron goddesses and out of placed decency of white woman and Anderson Cooper can always bring you down. Now we know in fact that the blond hag wannabe who started a lot of this had her Any Wednesday like apt paid for by Bill, a small trifler that I could as Jesuit lawyer drive a bread trick through even now, but which was just something to toss off by our Torquemada Anderson until, in fact I would see a white haired duelist like Lawyer meet with the awful Gloria Alread, who like many women and niggers of our rainbow collation of prosecutors of that awful channel, who cant make an argument, the woman was no longer by herself making a soliloquies, and dealt with a lawyer who knew the black arts, well that yentas started to actuality dissolve in the very air. Like I have said, I am never shocked who America deans to toss from the Tarpean rock. TW RMS STX VW.

I nodded, thought maybe he was the kid I went to school with who was the son of a police detective, who when he sees me acknowledges me, and then will do old Richard takes perfectly with me, but, it wasnt him, I didn't know why I wasnt sure his visage and demeanor bothered me as he came outwards me with a kind of hanging arms, both with a kind of GI Joe kung fu grip, which caused the large black man who I had the feeling knew me but couldn't place him stood by the red kettle and showed a Superman physique. Can I help you...?, I said, as there was a strange vibe in the air. You come up here to scope out your bitch Dago, he said, no fooling even I cant write dialog that bad and that stereotypical, something I have always avoided. Its why I loved Homicide, life on the street so much. What..? I said, my heart starting to race, a problem I have had lately though and less than I have ever been in many ways, and when I was fat didn't have these nocturnal heart racing, but I felt strange and upset even by this Erckel that stood before me verbosely. Still at about 240 pounds or so since my last physical, I could still squash this creep, but with my new found whiteness and he being an acrimonious nigger of course I would be a hate criminal, as some pigs are more pork than others here in animal farm.

I said, he said, with a strange set of lips that looked wax and a hair lip and looking like Martin Laurence after the flu, Did you come up here to scope out the nigger bitch you want to pimp, mahn...What....? I said, again now irritated. He seemed upset that I didn't speak fluent Soul trains, or I did nad this coon didn't anymore, as after all was listening to my brothers Parliament Funckdelic and Ohio Players when I was a boy. The girl in there are you up here to ask her to be her pimp, wop, he said. Is this a joke, I said. The large slave like Country looking John Henry stood up, I think you better get the fuck out of here, pal, the massive chested man said. Naw he said, with the kind of aplomb that his ilk has been taught by their white woman owners, This dago here is out for Nefertiti, in there, and I turned and saw her pleasantly check out my brother who was darting around the store to get what we needed for Xmas. 
 

Are you her girlfriend, I said, causing the man in the fire engine red sweatshirt in the drizzle and coolness to laugh. Get lost, buddy, the large man said, He wishes, he added,and waved him off. Naw man, this guy has an eye for Nefertiti, [her nickname as another black girl who knows my brother and says hello to us who doesn't interest me with red locks is called Beyonce.] He wants that chick, he said of me, I know what you wops is about...he wants to pimp that girl , that's what these Mafioso do...He watches her like a hawk, she told me, She knows you had a hard on when you were standing there looking at her. I was suddenly not scared as much as I was humiliated. I didn't ever recall having a hard on when speaking to her, as lately have thankfully taken to wearing under ware smaller than what I need by accident thankfully, as don't really recall having a hard on when speaking to her as much as the usual flustering that I take on as Bob Newhart my way through dealing with girls. This was more vulgar than EVEN I AS ROMAN ANTONY COULD ABIDE. I didn't recall even being so effected by Nefertiti, a girl called Ashley, whose hair was even more niggeraldy than Lorette, a cute girl who more like a co ed, with big tits on a thin frame, yet who has become a friendly sort, and sadly as they always seem to do with me, browned and straightened her hair, which is always a deal breaker as has been since the great Leslie. But now I felt sucker punched by this nigger, the sort brought

in to learn just enough Latin to be an alderman , maybe President, and I was on the verge of tears that the pretty girl I barely knew and tried to just be friendly towards would have been laughing at ,me as some sort of wop pimp sort with these effeminate negro street hustlers.

I am a big G man, the ninny said, making the big bald man laugh, me groan, again, I have always tried to avoid the acceptable to Jews TV tropes colloquialisms, which is both my charm and my mistake. Plautus was right and critics even more than the mere mezzanine wish for that unencumbered Encore to allow them to whistle the same tunes they came in with. This affectation from the coated man causing the big black man to tsk and smack his lips in disgust, And the thin creep said, Ill start trouble with you if you go after this girl, mahman...I wanted out of here and and went to our Ford FESTIVA AND I OPENED THE DOOR TO GET AWAY. But then, thought the better of is as I did with those horrid women who spoke of their hatred of masculinity, a Roman ethic in me starts to ember and burn bright. Even I slammed the blue door shut the nigger started to jump back. Then my brother came out and saw this. Hey, Chickie, he said affably to the black man seated there, Hey Tony, this is Chicky, we went to school tight, a great football player he was, lest get out of here, ...he walked towards the car and saw me frozen there with that coon across the parking lot and a large woman who saw this and stayed at the doors. Is there a problem here...?, my brother asked.

Again I must say I am taller broader, fatter, thicker than my more wirery bother, but again like with my shorter wirey father, they are more intimidating than bloated me will ever be. Of course, the negro was automatically intimated by thinner and bantam Machete, as the affable black man called to him, a crip before the handbook, like many who had known my brother since 1973. I was upset and at wits ends, but the always burning always quick, brother said looking at this creep, They let you out of the Oval Office, Barry, …?, as he and others here in the low rent sub urba call him Barry, as I initiated.  He said to the frozen moron, Do you have a problem...​​​ ?, causing the other black man to laugh. He got into the car and told me to get in. I stood there. Is something wrong here, is somebody bothering you, Tony...he asked. No, I said, and I got in the car. Then I got out and the smarmy sissy ran like a black deer who would of course be the villain in a Disney cartoon, Yeah Youd better Run, I said in my best Zoidberg. I with equity went to the man manning the kettle and took out a five. You gave me some man. No, I said, This is yours, i said.  Mine, he asked. Fer what...? You stood here made me feel...okay. I walked towards the car, thinking who are these awful people who bother me as some sort of open need to try to actually think they can intimidate me as I am more upset angrily than I am shut up, as again have had a Byzantine to English dictionary since 10. 

 

I felt humiliated and remanded, and had to get out before this girl saw me, as I dint think this was anything more than a pretty girl, like watching Kat Dannings on television, the dancing girl that has been loved in Rome and earned on no less than some Jew comedy about Rome, in which like the carol abut the Christmas dunkey was turn from the air by Jews who as Plautus said, didn't get the gist of the audience from the jump. I felt awful and sad and beaten down, as this was the year that I felt badly about Mad men when my own Ad hoc on which is was stolen, no really, this time, unlike imagination-land, this time the three named fake from the sopranos who made this had read my Ad hoc long ago, mine  also about 1970s ads, but much scrappier and more decent and honorable, and about why were ads about cigarettes taken off when ads for vodka weren't, but then I never made a point of the bright lights of the big city or of white mans burden. I felt badly that somehow it had come to this, a dick joke by this pretty girl with some house nigger who thinks himself a G...I felt badly about it all, especially now, having dealt with this nigger in this year of Bleeding cool and other shit having to deal with the censorious and the censored who end up having been nothing more than gangster film makers remaining Italian films like Mafia and Django. I felt awful about everything and alone and beaten and reviled and remanded by creeps who think they are something because they only mouth the word nigger or who think retards have now know be palmed on football fields,dressed up and paraded like Etruscan hostages, lest they never have proud parents as Life only goes in one way and one set of rules. I called Lorette and told her I was nuder the weather and wasnt going to redeem the star wars tickets and again with a cute brunette, of sorts, who is interested in me why again was I falling head over heels overs one multaoo girl always as Coriolanus said, somewhere out there. Even in the farce version. There was again that someone else, no not Kat Dannings, but one can always hope, though I aint that psychotic yet.

Then I got a shit load of interpretations, emails, many admiring me all at once, and all I did and tried to do. Many people unprovided by me in any way other than my usual queries, even if they didn't want me to do their work, still, after dealing with Tuner Watson, still, they liked my shit and my work, and this made me feel okay. I felt a anger in me stocked by Bleeding Coolers, the lords of flat-bush I always hated. And then, after my brother had done most of Christmas fir us as I was in a stupor, we sat together and watched the Christmas eve football Roman games. It would be a great weekend as the Packers, the Stealers, the Giants, all the teams we are told are decent and honorable lost the weekend that Concussion came out, as the Stealers Pollock army are out trying to explain why it was that they let Mike Webster a stalwart and a giant, let him die in the cold, whereas much pilloried Jerry Jones hated by niggers on cable television, got great linchpin of his championships, Charles Haley bi polar medicine and gave him a lifetime job as a consultant. It was seeing Mike Webster in 1996 on a trip to Pittsburgh, at a bus stop, that was the germ of Saturnalia, the lunkhead left in the cold who tells Marius a joyous Noel when he stands and steams and unravels in the snow. Though weathering a Cowboy cap long replaced, even still I asked the sweaty older broken man for a autograph I kept as a talisman in a red art folder. When I got it, I smiled and offered him a twenty, though am not rich. I am Roman heart-ed and though not a Stealers fan, found this like the admiration that Catiline and others had in the senate for being a man. Sadly, with broken affability, he took it with grace and sweetness and wished me a joyous Noel, like inspector Luger in Barney Miller as I felt equally touched. He told me the Pittsburgh pollacks laughed at him, for all the light bulb jokes that you'd think they'd avoid, behind his back, sometimes in front, as Fixers as seen in the play were soon to have to give bags of cash to pizza shop owners whose daughters and Angelinas and waitresses had been molested by Bloomfield Eddie, Big Ben, whose sins and cretinism don't register at ESPN, whose numbers in this year are off almost 8 percent, as Julius Caesar said, the first rule of propaganda is it must be read.

Then, on Christmas eve I sat with my exhausted brother, who fell asleep and I watched the boyhood team I watched as a kid, the Raidahs, anyone but the Stealers, as they played this last home game at ironically enough the Colosseum. And black shirted men pulled out a win as the Cowboys never could, sadly, my other team, and the Raiders won, bless their hearts and the Roman farce Saturnalia night, or is always Halloween...?, the black shirted fascists Saturnalia carnival sued as pejorative by Hillary voters and bag men like Maureen Dowdy, I could see Angelas who look like Kat Dannings, almost hard to stay a flight, pout and gorgeous came down and even Beth, that horrid blond who camels toes and shrewish, they did their magic, and the raiders puled it out as the republic might too, no Bush can Streisand his way about, yet is still there, triumphant, unrepentant, as Roman genius collect at the stage door, with flowers for the Julia's playing Medea or Maxine, if alloyed anymore, as they always did. As the Colosseum was finally true to its Roman roots, as scary to the middlebrows as the Romans and Peckinpah have always been, I saw a moment that was immaculate to me.

On the jumbo tron, as men in Kiss army like make up wearing proto Roman Armour, but hardly shining, men looking as Curtis must have looked all that time ago when he went into the breech as a Roman would and not like Jewey Jesus who knew supposedly hed come back as the first Zombie, and so to grin and bare it, as he begged Pop God Yahweh to spare him, proving right there that these gods in three parts are never equal as neither was Gaul. I sat and saw this quietly, my exhausted brother knew something bothered me and left me be, as the 2 broke girls as pixies of various hefts were off now and I take it that geek show had come on, sadly, I watched as the will of the pirate smiles was appearance as the place in all its money ball poverty was rickety and rocking, and there on the screen came the visage that pushed them all over the edge. There was the Myron Cope enemy, crabbed as Ginny like, yes Im not kidding Weakling Myyyrin, who showed me why my father hated him, called his enemy Al Davis, a Ginny and a wise guy on the radio, but then there is an undercurrent of racism to the Stealers which wouldn't go well against Cam or Rich Sherman. Al, who dared to win himself, the first sorts that the hillbillies hate, they can dish it out as it were, but cant take a sock in the jaw, and Al as returnee here as Roman paternalist saint, would, decked in a track suit greasy grimy hair gelled saint, a black saint, a Machiavellian hated for knowing the score and he said in this pahtoem zone apparition way, Just win baby...! And the palace of Negros and firth, and those not good enough to put on airs, the res publica In hole, the trash and filth Caesar loved, the Roman farce existing sill under the weighty droning of Greek anthology, exploded as audit means hearing and tarorium means Bullpen, as Jackie said, and our saint appeared from the ellusian fields to win and wink and advance again, the wise ass persisted and it made me smile and laugh. THAT no matter what Ill never be like you, ill never be a Myrin asking for the love of men that go away and leave him in the lurch for daring to feel empathy for Kordell. Some comic hack wanted me to though not using my work still wanted me to jump through hoops and somehow explain myself to him. Those days are done, I thought, and with silent joy, watched the Raiders win as they were meant by their lesser God, a god who likes the pirates but not rapists, to do. The Raiders won, a Saturnalia miracle, and there was still beauty in this muddy empire.